Beginnings of Molder...

[Hitman Hard]

The curvature of the blade struck outwards, worming half way into the soft curve of Molder’s cheek.

Molder chuckled; gave a facsimile look of hatred in mock-amusement, as his enemy belatedly raised a shield against his descending sword.

Steel-wrapped fingers barbed deep into the taut flesh of his forearm; the sword exploding a precise hole through the shield's fragility and freezing steel finding purchase in the belly shaking like an eel out of water.

Blood slobbered from the glinting steel embedding inwards full-hilt, and dribbled unto the dark-veined floor of the temple; skeleton fingers directing the manoeuvre... as Molder roared seemingly primordial unchanged curses in his enemy's painstruck, comatose morphing face; his bloodjustice flowing from his soul to accentuate his enemy’s belittlement.

"I thought you were a reporter!? If the information is damning you let everyone know. Social justice against the oaths of the powers-that-be!" Molder screamed.

His scream a horror in comparison to Molder's; like a somersault turning over in sulfur oozing lungs, It poisoned the air, turned his insides grotesque. Molder's vision shot down to his metal-wrapped fists, and he ripped one gauntlet off. He bore his fingers into the gaping fleshy hole. PUlled.

Chunks of flesh flashed upwards in the desert heat that manifested an aching gale through the swell of monochrome clouds and the slits of windows.

Molder’s fists came whizzing down; viscous blood rebounding. A purplish smear burned-in to his enemy's thigh; sending his nerve endings thawing out more misery.

At great length, he watched that stupid sense of dominance disssappear on the would-be corrupter of the media. He had habituated and chiseled his reactions against this type of threat. In this void, he found the freedom to fight for victory, or these priceless realization filled moments of clearness he utilized in the eye of a wild all that mattered contest.

In this realization of his enemy’s hate only being fear...

He looked down at the corpse... of this traitor against journalism. And left Athkatla behind, to find promise within Baldur’s Gate. His corpseclad face showing nothing besides overlapping thoughts of fix-less judgement and the faith in his satirical craft... nourishing the bonds of his mind as the words rolled from his lips, with a orchestral chastisement.

“So he expected a schism. Bring it... bring it... bring it....”

Molder walked through the desert like an astral spirit, unaware of the cruel rattle snake and cactus menacing realities existing among him.

His thoughts whistling back to what Charles had told him and how he must seek out the cadre of writers who felt their talents had been unfinished and their justice... their summoning of void not yet incurred...

[Hitman Hard]

Investigations Of The Past

The supplementary, magically-instituted illumination was tilted left then right with a pale hand of Molder’s fellow investigator.

“Doesn’t he know he is tormenting others besides you?”

“He does but he doesn’t care. He is just trying to create a rift in trust. Trying to torment.”

“How does he do it?”

“He has the book that can see.”

“You believe so?”

“I will always believe it so.”

“Why does he do it?”

Molder sighs, “He wants me to be apart of his story. I have no choice.”

“You can ignore him.”

“Oh I do, to an extent. But it prevents me from learning from him.”

“So... is there a difference between you two?”

“I have humanity. He only has hate.”

“So he is not human.... but phantasmal.”

“Perhaps both.” Molder smirked, his thoughts wondering to the killers he had pursued over the years. The near boiling wax pitter-pattered onto the parchment, as Molder didn’t realize he had gripped it too hard.

“You certainly have it right researched.” The voice arrested Molder from his speculation. His pale hand navigating methodically slow to the heaps of parchment. Hard use apparent; melted wax mistaken for blood creeping down along their spines.

Molder released a pleasant sigh, sipping a beer that went down so smooth he had another. A lukewarmness lounging in his belly and the buzz made a relaxing lush of his mind for an incalculable interval. His bone-pale teeth brushing almost sensually on the flesh of his thumb, he then intoned carefully, “A lot of the research has been gathered through psychology as much as word-of-mouth... He is somehow infuriated and jealous of my life or ability with pen. Bear in mind he cannot be avoided and drifting transiently through countries or whatever hidey-hole you go.”

The man raised a skinny eyebrow; classing a telepathic message to say more in itself.

Molder frowned, “What?"

“You know each other’s minds?"

Molder replied slightly terse, “What do you think?”

Molder wet the tip of the quill in the phantasmal glow of the library and recorded what the man said... his expression was interwoven with fascination and a certain toxicity from the words. The volume of stone grating against stone rever-berated alive. Horribly alive.

As another investigator; a woman in scarlet garb entered and said something disagreeable in a hoighty-toighty albeit aminan thick accent (without using the word kobold one time). A shaft of sunlight motes accompanied her light steps into the gothic architecture of the library; blood-curdling darkness emanating a carnivorous negative energy (due to the magical artifiactsss within).

Molder voraciously clobbered his beer down, revitalizing his quill scribbling and said sharply to further verify his presence, "Welcome."